#sella is here !

[obsessive-evie]

sleepy kate is soo dramatic like she needs her 8 (10) hours or she’s basically not able to function, all day she’ll be yawning exaggeratedly, walking and talking with her eyes closed, leaning on you with her full body weight, etc

•••

sleepy kate is also so needy like the second you get home, her arms are locked around your neck and she is not letting go bc she needs to be touching you or she’ll pout and who could say no to her puppy dog eyes?

she’s needy in … other ways too. she won’t ever say it, but she’ll look at you pleadingly until your knee or hand is between her legs. it’s always slow and gentle and filled with kisses and praise, and you love kate’s tired smile and the little noises she makes (she’s too out of it for words at this point)

(inspired by the iowawbb content today)

great day in the Kate Martin nation

she’d get home and immediately walk you over to the couch so she can collapse and sleep. no other reason.

she can also nap anywhere for very short amounts of time i don’t make the rules

the last one has my brain running in circles i can’t even. and like her eyes are so expressive but she’d just melt into you, her whole body relaxing as you take care of her. like imagine her on top of you on the couch in a hoodie, her hips barely pressing into yours as she looks at you like that.

[l3irdl3rain]

this is totally, completely unrelated to my blog but if you’re into folksy, indie, alternative music you must check out the best album of 2023

It’s very reminiscent of The Front Bottoms early EPs (Brothers Can’t Be Friends, My Grandma VS Pneumonia, and I Hate My Friends). Back when The Front Bottoms were good WOAH!?!? Who said that???

[dragonanne]

Here's some chill art of Gabryl with Sella that I did last summer. It's not really an modern au, but it kinda is because of the clothes xD (Basically, I just wanted to draw Gabryl in a button down and cardigan 😂)

For those who might not already know, Gabryl is from my book.

[damndarrenineedacigarettenow]

🌭🌭🌭

[ifuckinghatebriansella]

made some friendship bracelets to trade at the show i'm going to!! if you find me at the nj solo show you can have one 👀

[miiaoq]

The Front Bottoms // The Pageant STLMO 9/25/24

[nick-the-dog]

it was pouring when i came to school and i was listening to everything i own by tfb and it was such a moment

i know you all care very much

[cowardlycowboys]

most babygirl man

[glsneeg-enthusiast]

[studiousbotanist]

cant stop thinking about the pic brian posted to the tfb insta page . my mood catapulted thru the roof . he is soooooooooooo finnnneeeeee !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[obsessive-evie]

kate likes to hover. all. the. time.

she’ll come up behind you and stand with her hands clasped behind her back and her chin inches from your shoulder but will just stay there and let you keep doing whatever you were doing

if you’re making dinner, talking to someone, really just staying in one place for any reason at all, she’s gonna be right there

it’s cute most of the time except when you don’t notice and turn your head and run into her or have the jumpscare of your life

it’s especially cute when she’s on top of you and will top for a moment, your lips inches apart as you lock eyes and just enjoy being close to each other

i can SO SEE THIS

like she’s just a lil observer and wants to be near you but lets you do your own thing

like if ur studying or doing something artsy or smart she’d just kinda sit n watch from afar. its cute bc i don’t think she’d do it from a possessive standpoint either she just wants to be near you and likes seeing what you’re doing. if anything she’s just being nosey she couldn’t care less abt other people

i’ll let the top kate slide bc that is an accurate representation (i’d know ofc 🤷‍♀️) like she’d keep doing whatever she’s doing but she’d make sure to watch and see every detail

[purpl3people3ater]

you are the truth i choose to bend myself around / i felt so awkwardly divided, you defined my line somehow

[caffeinewitchcraft]

You are a Blacksmith

Set in the universe where your destiny is written on your arm

(The Hero and Hope) (Being Villagers) (You are the Demon King)

You are a Blacksmith.

That’s why the dragon’s fire doesn’t burn you.

“Pretty sure dragon fire is hotter than a forge,” your party’s leader pants. Kent is a veteran adventurer of twenty years to your two years and he’s seen his fair share of dragon fire before today. There are curling scars dragging the corner of his mouth down into a permanent scowl that pairs oddly with how high he has his salt-and-pepper eyebrows. He exhales noisily. “I think you’re just a freak, actually.”

“Not nice,” Sella says. The archer is your age with twice your experience. Her leather armor is well-beaten by four years running around with Kent and getting far closer to battle than an archer should. Her red hair is tied with golden thread that matches the golden charms dangling from her necklace. She adds a new one with every successful monster kill. It’s lucky she’s so stealthy or else she’d be jingling with every step. “Mande is an exception, not a freak.”

You’re a party of exceptions. Most adventurers are Villagers or Guards, common destinies that don’t always find a place within a town or village that have so many of each already. There are days you report for a mission, and you’re offered a blacksmith’s job on the spot just because of the mark on your arm.

Kent is a landless Lord. There’s a story there, you know, but it’s not one he’s ever volunteered. You can see his destiny pull at him in the remote reaches of the Kingdom, where no Lord has laid roots and the monsters run roughshod across the barren soil. Nights where you’re too far from civilization find him gazing up into the stars, his fingers curled like claws into the earth. The look on his face then is so hungry that the first time you saw it, you offered him provisions from your own pack. He’d shaken his head wryly, his scarred frown twisting, and walked off into the night by himself, only returning in the morning light.

Sella is a Guardian without anyone to look after. You knew her story before she told it to you, whispering it like a bedtime story before the end of the world. She was part of a traveling theater group. She looked after them, feeding them and retrieving those with wanderlust from their journeys before curtain call. When a monster siege led by a Demon King fell upon the city they were performing in, the Lord called his people into his castle and locked the doors.

The troupe were not his people. But they were Sella’s.

Until they weren’t.

You drag your battle hammer up and over your shoulder. Conveniently, the dragon fire has burned away the wet viscera that had been clinging to it. The metal is dark with soot, but undamaged.

The things you smith can’t be melted by any fire except your own.

The skeletal trees make the scene of this final battle oddly silent. Ash drifts from the sky, carried by a wind too high to feel. You can hear your party sniping at each other behind you and the gentle gurgle of the beast’s body settling comfortably into death.

The red dragon is beautiful. Its scales gleam and sparkle like rubies in the late afternoon sun and its talons shine like obsidian. Each part of the creature could make an average family rich for a month. You consider it from an arm’s reach away. You chew your bottom lip as you think. Your adventures have taken you across the continent from the southern coast you call your home, to the western land of rivers, to the northern desert and then here, to the eastern dry lands. After all your travels, you find yourself still thinking of home often. Crab is a delicacy where you’re from despite being so close to the water. The preparation can be tedious which makes it a dish reserved from significant occasions. Cracking the shell was always your job…

“Oh,” Sella says faintly. She makes an attempt to rise and nearly tips over in the process. If it weren’t for her bow, she’d be on the ground. Her knees shake as she uses a combination of a tree and her bow to pull herself up. “Mande, rest first! In an hour I can help you—”

You bring your hammer down on the jaw of the dragon. The bone shatters after just two blows. It’s best not to think about how beautiful it looked flying overhead or the intelligence in its eyes. You’ve always had a single-minded focus and you rely on that now.

“Leave her to her dismantling,” Kent grumbles. He’s now curled up on the ground is if in his sleeping roll, hands tucked neatly under his chin. It can’t be a comfortable position given his full suit of armor no matter how peaceful his expression. “If she’s got the energy for it, who are we to argue? Just keep the ribs intact. That’s what the client wants.”

Smash!

“It’s our turn to do the dismantling,” Sella says. She glares down at Kent. “Mande already did last week’s gryphon and the hydra. Get up!”

Smash!

“I’m an old man who needs his nap time.”

“You’re an irresponsible leader who needs to do his part.”

Smash!

“Once Mande stops swinging that thing around, I will.”

“She won’t hit you—”

“She hit me last week!”

“And I apologized for that,” you say through gritted teeth. You let your hammer fall by your feet. Your last blow sent tremors through your arms. The dragon’s jaw is like glass compared to its skull. “Sincerely.”

Sella makes a gagging sound when you fall to your knees next to the cracked skull. “Mande, don’t put your hand in there, that’s – oh, that’s so gross.”

“The book I read said it’d be…aha!” Your fingers graze something cool and metallic. You abruptly feel like crying. It’s been seven months. Seven long months of endless missions and danger and being away from home. This entire dragon is priceless, but you’ve forfeited your share for this. You blink rapidly to keep your tears at bay. You aren’t going to cry. Not until you’re sure that you’ve really found it. “Quick, hand me my waterskin.”

Your urgency gets even Kent up and bustling towards the dragon’s corpse. With trembling fingers you accept the water from Stella, pulling out your prize. It’s smaller than you thought, only about the length of your arm or a third the length of the dragon’s skull.

With bated breath, you gently trickle water over the length of it. Your party kneels beside you, watching just as raptly.

“What is it?” Sella breathes.

Kent is wide-eyed as, inch by inch, your treasure reveals itself.

“A dragon’s silver wit,” you say. The silver is mottled by the dragon’s black blood and grey brain matter. “The last ingredient I need for a Hero’s Sword.”

-----.

“You can’t just make a Hero’s Sword,” Kent is still saying a week later. He throws his hands up to the sky. “Heroes make them from air and magic and righteousness. Blacksmiths just repair them!”

You didn’t ask for Sella or Kent to follow you home. In fact, you assumed they wouldn’t. The slaying of the red dragon marked the end of your time in the Adventurer’s Guild. Now you’re ready to return to your position as the southern port’s best blacksmith and you thought they’d be ready to return to the best two adventurers the Capital Guild had.

“I’ve heard legends about it,” Sella says. She’s walking backward. You’ve already warned her that the roads this far away from Capital aren’t as smooth, but she’d scoffed at your concern. Now it’s pure stubbornness to prove you wrong that has her continuing to walk backwards despite nearly tripping twice already. “Excalibur was manmade.”

“The legend of Hero Arthur is manmade,” Kent retorts.

“If you believe that,” you say, “you really don’t need to come home with me.”

Kent blinks. “Well,” he says slowly, “on the off chance it’s not a fairytale, I desperately want to see it.”

“Then shut up and follow Mande,” Sella says. She elbows him and mutters under her breath. “Or else she might not let us stay at her house.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m sure the dragon fetched enough coin for the both of you to get your own rooms at the inn.”

“Sure,” Kent agrees. He grins wickedly and the expression makes him look ten years younger. “But we’re not going to do that, are we Sella?”

“Nope,” Sella chirps. She loops an arm through yours before you can protest and squints at the horizon. “Is that your hometown over there?”

A hazy line of blue and white roofs is barely distinguishable in the fading light of day. Sella has better vision than you. You’re sure she can see the masts of ships in port, the green and yellow flag waving over the chief’s house, maybe even the orchard that creeps right up to the edge of the bluffs.

You can’t wait to see it yourself.

You aren’t sure how long you’ve been smiling, but your face hurts by the time you find your voice. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

----------.

Mom hurls a loaf of bread at your head when you walk through the front door, Kent and Sella in tow.

Kent catches it an inch from your face. “Whoa, whoa!” He waves the bread as if unsure whether he should drop it or throw it back. “It’s your daughter! Mande! Put down the bread basket!”

“Mande and friends,” Sella says cheerfully. She waves at your Mom, Dad, and little brother. “Hello! I’m Sella.”

“I threw it because I know who it is,” your mom says. The grey streaks on either side of her temple are wider. Her round, kind face is pale with anger. “We thought you were dead.”

“We got your letters,” your dad says before you can ask. His hair hasn’t changed; he’s bald. He’s wearing his leather apron from the forge at the table. He takes a bite of soup. “All three of them.”

“Not nearly enough,” Mom snaps. Then, “And they could have been forgeries.”

“Who would forge a blacksmith’s letters home?” you ask in exasperation. Is that why she never replied? “Mom, please.”

“Don’t giveme that when you’ve been dead for seven months,” she says. She stands abruptly. “Three of you? Sit down. I don’t have enough soup, but bread will fill anyone’s stomach.”

“I’m Kent,” Kent blurts out before Sella can push him into a chair. He sits with a thud. “Sella, it’s rude to sit before introducing yourself!”

“Ruder than not knocking or coming for dinner without an invitation?” Sella hisses at him. She turns a charming smile on your little brother. “Sorry to intrude. You must be Axton. A pleasure to meet you.”

Axton doesn’t return her greetings. His eyes are fixed to the package strapped to your back. “Is that…?”

You swallow hard as your family’s eyes turn to you. You carefully pull the cloth-wrapped rod from your back. Your little brother isn’t so little anymore. You can see he’s taller than you as he stands in unison with Dad to clear a spot on the table. His long, thin hands make quick work of the ties.

There’s complete silence as the burlap falls away to reveal gleaming silver.

Axton’s throat bobs. He’s barely eighteen with the soft look of a fawn hovering around the edges of his jaw and cheekbones. Mom and Dad have done a good job feeding him while you’ve been gone. Seven months ago your brother looked like a wraith, all the light taken from him as if it all came from his hero’s sword.

“You’re going to make me a sword,” Axton says at last.

You’ve thought about this moment for seven months. You imagined you would say something like it’s okay now or maybe big sister fixed it. When his hero’s sword was taken from him, you thought about all sorts of things. It took a month for you to set out on this quest rather than one of revenge. It wouldn’t have helped Axton if you’d forged a hundred weapons of war to punish those who’d hurt him. It wouldn’t help Axton to pretend you fixed anything.

So instead you tell the truth.

“It won’t be the same,” you say. “It won’t work the way you want it to. Not right away. You’ll need to train with it and learn it as you would any other weapon. Your instincts won’t help you. But…it won’t break when I’m done. It won’t bend or chip. It won’t melt. It will serve you, Axton, until the exact moment you don’t need it anymore.”

Axton flies around the table to throw his arms around you. It’s amazing you came from the same parents. Where you are short and stocky, he’s really like a deer. His long arms could encircle you twice as he lifts you with a hero’s strength. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

And then you’re being hugged all around. Your dad’s strong, Blacksmith arms are crushing you to your brother, your mother’s soft cheek is against your shoulder, and there’s plate mail digging into your spleen while a sharp elbow digs into your spine.

You manage to turn your head just enough to see Kent hugging your from behind and Sella hugging him from behind. It’s her elbow that’s jabbing you.

“This is sweet,” she says. Her voice is a little muffled from how her face is pressed against Kent’s back. “We should hug more.”

“Does this make your brother a Hero?” Kent asks.

“This is a family hug,” you say.

“Duh,” Sella says. “That’s why we joined.”

You really can’t argue with that.

-

(Patreon)

Next week's story: Everyone in LA has two job. You've got a big smile and a talent for seeing ghosts. It's no surprise what your jobs are.

[probablyasocialecologist]

The latest questions are centered around Anat Schwartz, an Israeli who co-authored several of the paper’s most widely circulated reports, including the now well-known and scrutinized December 28 article headlined: “‘Screams Without Words’’ How Hamas Weaponized Sexual Violence on Oct. 7.” Independent researchers scrutinized the online record, and raised serious questions about Schwartz. First, she has apparently never been a reporter but is actually a filmmaker, who the Times suddenly hired in October. You would expect the paper to look for someone with actual journalistic experience, especially for a story as sensitive as this one, written during the fog of war. Surely the paper had enough of its own correspondents on staff who could have been assigned to it. Next, the researchers found that Schwartz had not hidden her strong feelings online. There are screenshots of her “liking” certain posts that repeated the “40 beheaded baby” hoax, and that endorsed another hysterical post that urged the Israeli army to “turn Gaza into a slaughterhouse,” and called Palestinians “human animals.” (Just this morning, more evidence emerged online; Schwartz apparently also served in Israeli Military Intelligence.) Finally, one of her co-authors on two of the reports was Adam Sella, who is her nephew.  Let’s pause here. What would happen if the Times suddenly hired a Palestinian filmmaker with no journalistic background, who had recently publicly “liked” posts that called for “pushing Israeli Jews into the sea,” to co-write several of its most sensitive and contested reports? 

[...]

There’s another related example of how the Times has botched the sexual violence story. One of the first Israeli organizations that arrived on the scene of the Hamas attack was Zaka, a volunteer group that recovers dead bodies. On January 15, Times reporter Sheena Frankel wrote a positive profile of the group; she included 3 or 4 sentences of criticism, only to quickly dismiss them. This site had already raised serious doubts about Zaka weeks earlier, pointing out that “the organization’s volunteers have systematically given false testimonies, and continue repeating them to journalists on behalf of the Israel government.” Then, on January 31, the Israeli daily Haaretz published a long investigation, that highlighted “cases of negligence, misinformation and a fundraising campaign that used the dead as props.” Haaretz cited one Zaka report that said a volunteer had seen a murdered pregnant woman, with the baby still attached by the umbilical cord — before concluding that the incident “simply didn’t happen.” At this stage, there are serious doubts about many aspects of Israel’s overall account about October 7. Only a genuinely independent and impartial investigation might some day get closer to the truth. But meanwhile, at the very least the New York Times must publicly recognize its errors, and assign new, unbiased reporters to try to clean up its mess. 

Continue reading

[nick-the-dog]

going crazy in school listening to lover boy by tfb it’s a moment

[soon-palestine]

not only is this a transparant attempt by the New York Times to shield Jeffrey "I don't do evidence, I do stories" Gettleman and her partner's nephew food blogger Adam Sella, they're also lying about it being about "a liked tweet" to defend the "mass rape" hoax they fabricated it was never just about "one liked tweet". That's a pathetic cover-up attempt. She expressed repeatedly, including with her nephew Adam Sella, that she set out to fabricate the "mass rape" hoax "because it is important for Israeli hasbara [propaganda]

then The Intercept went back and looked over her public detailed statements, and confirmed this. Anat Schwartz intentionally set out, together with her relative Adam Sella, to fabricate this hoax in coordination with the Israeli regime. That is the scandal

recently graduated comp lit student and food blogger with zero reporting experience Adam Sella worked daily with his uncle's wife Anat Schwartz to self-admittedly fabricate this hoax. And the NYT keeps letting him launder it as detailed in these threads:

just recently the New York Times finally buckled after months of depraved shielding of the original "mass rape" hoax fabricated by Gettleman, Sella and Schwartz, and admitted just one of the huge glaring holes in it, while still trying to cover for it

all the fabricated "mass rape" pieces produced by Jeffrey Gettleman, Adam Sella and his uncle's partner Anat Schwartz have been definitively debunked as genocidal atrocity propaganda hoaxes by Mondoweiss, Grayzone, Electronic Intifada, Intercept and myself

instead of acknowledging this, retracting them and firing Gettleman and Sella for journalistic malpractice not seen in NYT history since Judith Miller, they are still standing by them and scapegoating Anat Schwartz with the grotesque cover-up lie about "it's just one liked tweet"

here is the original thread where I exposed Anat Schwartz for the self-admitted genocidal atrocity propagandist hoaxer she is, and notice that I immediately included her nephew Adam Sella and Jeffrey Gettleman. The NYT desperately wants to scapegoat her

minimal journalistic integrity and morality demands that the New York Times immediately fire Jeffrey Gettleman and Adam Sella, retract all their "mass rape" hoax pieces, profusely apologize, then also fire executive editor Joseph Kahn who oversaw and defended all this for months

Joseph Kahn, Jeffrey Gettleman and Adam Sella worked together to commission, publish, and then defend long after its decisive debunking a genocidal atrocity propaganda hoax that played a key role in the Israeli regime's propaganda effort to launder and continue the Gaza genocide

it was intentional, it was deliberate, and the New York Times keeps standing by it. Every second it does it further erodes the last remnants of its credibility. Again, this is their biggest journalistic scandal since Judith Miller's WMD hoax. There has to be accountability for it